Scoundrel's Daughter

by Margo Maguire

  No, she would turn the tables on him. She would make certain that he couldn’t come back into the room. Pulling the chair to the door, she tipped it, placing the back under the doorknob as she’d done years ago with a childhood playmate. When she was satisfied that she had effectively locked him out, Dorothea took the pins out of her hair and shook it loose. She undressed down to her chemise, then crawled into bed and fell asleep.

  Her last thought was that her mother would certainly never approve of lying abed in the middle of the morning.

  Jack turned the key in the lock and pushed the door. Dorothea had obviously placed something in front of it so that he wouldn’t be able to enter, but it posed no real problem. He eased the door forward and the blockade slid along with it, allowing him entrance.

  Since he was prepared for an angry outburst from Dorothea, he was surprised to find her sleeping soundly under the blankets. He grinned. This trip was proving to be a lot more interesting than if he’d traveled alone.

  He took off his jacket and tie, then moved the chair over to the window where it belonged. Unbuttoning the back pocket of his trousers, he pulled out the map and smoothed it over his lap to study it in the bright sunlight.

  It was a typical medieval map. Distances and landmarks were exaggerated or ignored. Latin and Greek script filled the margins, and a cursory look at the writing had given Jack no better understanding of the sites shown on the map. In the center was York, and if Jack was not mistaken, the old town was drawn much too close to the eastern coast. And it was way too large.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the other document. There had to be some connection between the two, but Jack could not see it, though the two documents were clearly drawn by the same hand. What did these lines in Greek, Latin and Arabic mean?

  Dorothea sighed deeply in her sleep, drawing Jack’s attention. He hadn’t wanted to look at her, especially not now, as she turned to her side. The blanket pulled away from her shoulders, leaving too much of her soft skin naked to his gaze.

  She really must have thought the room was secure against him, or she would never have undressed so completely. He wished she hadn’t. He’d already seen more than he would ever be able to forget. Had that only been yesterday when she’d fainted in Alastair’s collection room?

  It seemed as if she’d been with him forever.

  Chagrined by the thought, Jack jerked his attention back to the map and key. His only reason for keeping Dorothea Bright with him was to prevent her from sabotaging his attempts to recover the Mandylion. The fact that she could translate the Arabic lines was a gift, one that could be had from a number of other sources.

  Jack had to admit, though, that he didn’t want to involve anyone else in his search for the Mandylion, especially not another antiquities scholar. Things always got much too complicated when a gaggle of academics got involved. Since this was such a limited expedition, Jack hadn’t even brought his own team with him. His men were taking a well-deserved holiday to recover from their disaster in Tanganyika. Gauge O’Neill was recuperating from his last bout with fever, and the rest of them were enjoying the delights London had to offer.

  Looking over at Dorothea, Jack knew he wasn’t missing anything by leaving them.

  Refusing to allow her to distract him again, he began translating the place names on the map. He was familiar with some of the locations, since he had visited York many years before with his mentor, Charlie MacElroy. Most of the places, however, were unfamiliar. Foston, Wharram Percy, Elmswell, Wetwang. Jack wondered if these places still existed and what significance they held to the mapmaker.

  To the north was Rievaulx, and just below the abbey was the image of a face. Could it be one of the Templar faces?

  Jack rubbed his hand across his own face. He was tired. More than that, he was exhausted. He’d had very little sleep in the past few days, and none at all the night before. He needed to rest before he taxed his brain trying to remember everything he’d ever known about the Templar Knights and their connection to the Mandylion.

  He folded the map and key, put them into his pocket and eased down on the bed beside Dorothea.

  Jack had planned on doing the gentlemanly thing by taking the floor, but as long as Dorothea was asleep, she would never know he’d lain right next to her. Besides, all they were doing was sleeping. Nothing else, even if he did enjoy the view as he drifted off.

  His sleep was not restful. Turbulent dreams of a sheela-na-gig and a Celtic warrior intruded. Jack was the warrior, and damn if Dorothea Bright wasn’t the sheela, bare and exposed, just like the ancient female figure. But this sheela was beautiful. And she was beautifully proportioned of flesh and blood, not carved in stone with exaggerated anatomical parts like the one he’d seen displayed in Alastair Bright’s collection.

  Jack saw himself sweep her into his arms and carry her away on his stallion, riding hard, until they were both breathless. Holding her naked body close to his, he could smell lavender in her hair, feel the weight of her hips against his huge mahogany phallus.

  Jack groaned in his sleep, the sensations of the dream all too real, the images from Bright’s graphic collection fresh in his mind. Stone figures engaging in illicit acts flooded his mind, while he rode on with his sheela until they were alone in misty, green hills. She slid off the stallion and ran from him, laughing, taunting. Her breasts were bare, and when her hair swirled around her shoulders, the pale, soft globes were hidden from his view.

  He could not keep up with her. Each time he reached her, she gained some distance. Every pore of his body ached to touch her. Her sweet, seductive laughter filled the air, and Jack’s body pulsed with need.

  A muffled shriek pierced his consciousness and he sat up abruptly. Still half-asleep and more than half-aroused, he was momentarily disoriented.

  “Out!” came the voice again. This time, it was accompanied by a shove, and Jack came more fully awake.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re in my bed!” Dorothea hissed.

  “Good of you to tell me,” he muttered, looking into flaming green eyes. “Especially when I was in the middle of the most…the most amazing dream….”

  Her eyes widened, and the fists holding the blanket over her breasts tightened. Her neck and shoulders remained enticingly bare, and her hair cascaded down her back, over her shoulders. Jack couldn’t keep his eyes from roving over her, taking in every attribute, even though the sight of her prevented him from getting his unruly reflexes under control. And on the heels of that damn dream, it was nearly impossible to tamp down the intensity of his arousal.

  Dorothea gave him another push, but he was immovable. He grabbed her wrist to keep her from shoving him again. She blushed, and he pulled her toward him.

  “We need to get something straight, right now,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to give you the leeway you need to contact your father. That means we’re going to be together. A lot.”

  “But I will not al—”

  “You and I are going to find the Mandylion,” he said, keeping his voice low but without menace, “without any interference from your sneaking, greedy father. We’ll take equal credit for the find, but you’re going to have to cooperate with me, or I’ll cut you out of the deal.”

  Dorothea moistened her lips, and Jack found himself breaking eye contact to watch her tongue move slowly, seductively across her lips. Instantly, he knew it was a mistake. Drawing on every ounce of willpower to keep from laying her down on the mattress and using his own tongue on her mouth, Jack turned away and took a deep breath.

  “If you try to lock me out of this room again,” he said, dropping her wrist, “I’ll find myself another epigraphist, and you’ll have nothing.”

  He swung his legs off the bed. Picking up his coat from the chair where he’d put it, he grabbed his tie and left the room.

  Dorothea practically flew into her clothes the minute Jack Temple closed the door behind him. She’d thou
ght him merely unnerving before. Now he was downright frightening.

  Or perhaps she was more frightened by her reaction to him.

  Dorothea stopped buttoning her blouse before she was half finished, and put her hands on her cheeks to cool them. Had Jack Temple had his arms around her while they slept? Had he fondled her breast and nuzzled her neck before she’d bolted up in bed?

  She swallowed. It had seemed like part of a dream, but now Dorothea was unsure whether or not his touch had been real. One thing was certain, though. She had never felt anything quite so exquisite in her life, had never imagined that a man’s touch could feel so…She didn’t know what to call it. Exciting…arousing.

  In all her talks about marriage, Dorothea’s mother had never spoken of such feelings, had never hinted that there was any pleasure to be had from the mere touch of a man’s hand, the heat of his body. How was it possible that Honoria had not known?

  Dorothea finished dressing, then pinned up her hair and put on her hat. There was no time to think of these things now, not when Jack Temple was about to leave and search for the Mandylion on his own. Besides, Mr. Temple was not the kind of man suitable for any respectable woman. Along with being a crude American, his way of life was exactly the same as her father’s, and it had driven her mother away. And with Dorothea’s weak heart, she would never be able to travel to exotic, foreign excavation sites, even if she wanted to.

  She pulled open the door and hurried outside, colliding with the man who’d occupied her thoughts. He grabbed her by her upper arms and kept her from losing her footing. And he did not release her immediately, as a gentleman should.

  A shiver of excitement raced through her at his touch, and in that moment she knew she had not been dreaming. He’d held her close while he slept, and more. Her breasts tingled with an awareness of how it felt for them to be cupped in his hand, fondled by his fingers.

  “Better get your jacket if you’re cold,” he said gruffly.

  “But I’m—” He’d obviously felt her tremor. Rather than own up to it or the reason for it, she agreed with him and went back into the room to retrieve her jacket.

  “Where are we going?” Dorothea asked.

  Jack had wanted to keep her in the dark as long as possible, but now that they were riding in an open buggy on a country lane south of the city, he didn’t see how he could avoid letting her in on his plan, what there was of it.

  “Just getting the lay of the land,” he said.

  She tilted her head to look at him. “Does the map give any indication of where the Mandylion might be hidden?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. He transferred the reins to one hand and reached into his breast pocket. Pulling out the packet that contained the map and the key, he handed them to Dorothea.

  While she studied the documents, Jack studied her, keeping only one eye on the lane.

  She was all buttoned up again—as prim and proper as she could possibly be, with her hair tightly tucked under her silly hat and her long jacket concealing all her soft, luxurious curves. But Jack knew what lay concealed, and he wasn’t likely to forget.

  “Is this a Templar head?” she asked, pointing to one of the drawings that Jack had been wondering about ever since he’d found the map in Bright’s desk.

  “What do you know of the Templar heads?”

  “Not a lot,” she replied. “Only that the Templar Knights worshipped a man’s head. This looks similar to a drawing I once saw of the heads at Temple-coombe.”

  Jack was impressed. Not many people knew about the Knights of the Temple beyond the rumors of their secretive affairs. The organization had started out early in the twelfth century with the blessings of the Church and the Pope and ended in disgrace less than two hundred years later. “Anyone who believes the Templars worshipped a stone head is wrong.”

  “Then why is the head a recurring motif in their churches?”

  “Because of the—”

  “Mandylion?” she asked. “The heads are representations of the face on the Mandylion?”

  “Exactly,” he said. He gave her a grudging smile. For one who’d said she knew nothing of the holy cloth, she certainly came to the right conclusion. “Most scholars believe the Mandylion is actually the Shroud of Turin.”

  “But you, in your infinite wisdom…”

  He laughed outright and had the pleasure of eliciting a spark of humor in her eyes. “I have another theory. One, I would add, that’s shared by a number of learned men.”

  “Which is?” she asked, leaning slightly toward him.

  “We know that the cloth found its way to Edessa some time after the death of Christ. It eventually traveled from Edessa to Constantinople and was lost when the city was sacked by Crusaders in 1204.”

  “I could never understand that—Christians going off and raiding a non-Islamic city.”

  “Greed is a powerful motivator.”

  “I suppose,” she replied, and Jack was struck by her lack of guile. It was almost as if she did not know of her father’s mercenary approach to the treasures of antiquity.

  “There is documentation that Templar Knights were involved in the raid on Constantinople,” he continued. “So it’s entirely feasible that the cloth fell into Templar hands.”

  “But why didn’t the Templars make it known to the rest of Christendom?”

  “They were a secretive bunch,” Jack explained. “There are theories about what they were doing in the Holy Land—tunneling under Temple Mount for Solomon’s treasure, for example. Whatever they were doing, they did not want the rest of the world to know it.”

  “So you’re saying that the Shroud, which, if I remember correctly, turned up in France after the Templars were disbanded, is not the same cloth that was known to be in Edessa?”

  “Right again,” he said, admiring the sharpness of her intellect. “I think there were two entirely different cloths. The shroud that is now in Turin and the Mandylion.”

  Dorothea didn’t comment, but Jack could see that her mind was working to assimilate all that he’d said. She had to know that her father wouldn’t have collected and perhaps paid a handsome sum for the Mandylion map unless he believed it to be a valuable artifact.

  While Dorothea studied the map, they drove in silence, and Jack wondered if he would be able to locate any of the places that were marked or if they’d disappeared over time. They were in the general vicinity of one of the heads, but Jack didn’t see anything of significance in the landscape.

  “I don’t see how you can tell what’s what on this map,” she finally said. “The mapmaker put York in the center, with the coast drawn at the bottom. Rievaulx Abbey is to the right of York, which is actually directly north.” She turned the map to reorient the four directions. “Hmmm. It appears that everything is laid out correctly, I suppose, if you turn it this way. But York seems much too close to the coast.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he said.

  “There’s a cross marked on a site a few miles south of York—probably around here somewhere. It could signify any church,” she said, glancing up at him.

  “True,” he replied, “but why would it be specifically marked on this map?”

  Dorothea did not answer, but returned her attention to the map. “There are heads—Templar heads?—drawn in three different places. Two are right next to the two crosses, and the third is directly below York—or rather, east of York—near the coast.”

  “And there are several other markings. Villages. And these—” he pointed to the drawings of crenellated walls “—I would guess are castles.”

  “But there are so many.”

  Jack winked at her. “That’s what makes my line of work so interesting.”

  “You mean to search them all?”

  “No. I mean for you to finish translating the key and then maybe we can narrow down the hunt.”

  “Mr. Temple, I—”

  “Jack,” he said, turning again to meet her eyes. “I never stand on formalities when I’m o
n expedition, Dorrie.”

  “M-Mr.—” She licked her lips again, causing a blast of heat to shoot through him. “Um, Jack, I don’t see how you can possibly believe I would help you work against my own father.”

  He had an answer for her, but words escaped him. They were alone in the country, with only the birds and a few cows for company. Though it had turned cloudy and cool, it was a beautiful day, and Dorrie Bright was sitting close to him. Her lips were full and moist, but she looked as tightly laced as ever. He wondered if she would allow him to put his arm around her if she became chilled.

  Or perhaps kiss her.

  He put that thought out of his head. “The man’s a thief and a scoundrel.” Kissing her was nothing but a fantasy, the result of that ridiculous dream he’d had while lying on the bed with her.

  “So you’ve said time and again, but you’ve never given me one reason to believe you.”

  “Did I tell you about my expedition to Tanganyika?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked straight ahead. “No.”

  “I had thousands of dollars’ worth of photographic equipment,” he said. “We’d planned to study the Mongasa tribe, deep in the interior, and take photographs. Nothing more.”

  “Very admirable, I’m sure. But not entirely unprofitable for you.”

  “Of course not. But your father stole the tribal fertility god—the Kohamba,” he said. “He took it one morning before dawn and slipped out of the Mongasa village, leaving my team to take the blame for its disappearance.”

  She said nothing, but he saw the muscles in her throat move as she swallowed hard.

  “The situation got very ugly, very quickly. In the end, it was an absolute miracle that we all got out.”

  “If what you say is true—”

  “Every word,” he said.

  “No,” she countered. “I can’t believe it. Why would he go off to Africa on some dangerous expedition when he had the Mandylion map right here? And the Mandylion itself probably right here in Yorkshire?”